


The Door of Fire

by Anna_Wing



Series: Stations of the Sickle [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fourth Age, Gen, Valinor, aman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Wing/pseuds/Anna_Wing
Summary: In which Celebrimbor asks a question and gets an answer that he would rather not have had
Series: Stations of the Sickle [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/913020
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	The Door of Fire

It was, Celebrimbor conceded, probably the _second_ most impressive door in the Blessed Realm. He had been Recalled to life in the Gardens of Lorien like everyone else, but one of his hiking trips with Master Frodo while they were researching their comprehensive and definitive (for the time being, anyway, he was aware that there would have to be updates, things evolved, even in Valinor) guide to the edible fungi of Aman had taken them to the northwest, and they had of course taken the detour to visit the Doors of Mandos. It was after all the major sight for visitors in that part of the country (‘attraction’ being perhaps not quite the correct word…). 

This couldn’t compare, of course, but then it hadn’t been made by Gods. The Doors of Mandos were overwhelming in scale, and evoked wonder, awe, a considerable degree of respectful caution, and for Noldorin visitors, speculation about their materials, construction and operation, but the power that breathed forth from them had nothing of malice in it.

 _This_ Door, on the other hand….

. . . . .

He had been visiting the Halflings and cousin Elrond in Avallonë when the invitation from Great-Aunt Lalwen was delivered. An invitation from the Queen of Tol Eressëa couldn’t really be refused except for a genuine emergency, which was absent, so he dutifully packed a bag and reserved a seat on the first morning centipedal up into the hills; he could have taken the airship of course, but the Queen hadn’t indicated that there was any hurry. 

The route was very pleasant, winding upwards among waterfalls, bamboo and hardwood forests, and the occasional Avari tea plantation. Once up on the great central plateau of the island, the centipedal route to the Queen’s court in Alalminorë ran past the many small lakes and streams that watered the plateau, and its mostly Vanyar-run farms and orchards; many of the surviving soldiers of the War of Wrath had preferred to settle in the Lonely Isle, and be ruled by a fellow veteran, rather than return to their shining city on the Holy Mountain. They were all kinslayers now, after all; Vanyar didn’t lie to themselves about the nature of Men, or the origins of Orcs…

. . . . .

The first few days in the city of Alalminorë were quiet, spent mostly catching Great-Aunt Lalwen up with his doings, and those of his mother and grandmother, and meeting his acquaintances in the House of Knowledge in Alalminorë. Then the message came to his rooms one afternoon to be ready to meet the Queen the next morning, an hour before dawn.

It was starlessly dark when he joined her on the front verandah of her house. The air was cool and sweet; cicadas strummed in the trees surrounding the entry court, and a single, early-rising koel cried from the garden with implacable determination. A covered hexapedal cart waited by the rail; they got in, and the Queen used the hammer to chime out a sequence of notes for a completely unfamiliar destination. The hexapod hummed a harmonising note in response and leapt forward, running into the black pre-dawn. 

“Here,” Great-Aunt Lalwen said, and passed him a flask of tea and a packet of meat-and-fruit filled buns, still warm from the steamer “Eat. You may not feel like breakfast afterwards.” That sounded a little worrying; but years of combat had taught Celebrimbor to eat whenever the opportunity offered itself, and the habit remained. The hexapod was running at its maximum speed, its gait buttery-smooth; though the landscape was flashing by under the swiftly-greying sky, the surface of the tea barely rippled.

When it finally slowed to a halt some thirty minutes later, they were far from the city. Celebrimbor stepped out, and looked around in wonder; he had never been to this place before, though this was not his first visit to Alalminorë, which had been uninhabited when first he left the Blessed Realm. In the dim light, he could see that they stood in a wide, grassy expanse surrounded by what looked like multiple huge, concentric rings of low, grass-grown mounds, all of similar size. Neat, flower-lined paths wound among them, and a few had pavilions on top. It looked somewhat like Master Frodo’s descriptions of his homeland, but he was sure that there were no other Halflings in Aman except the two Bagginses. And…this seemed a fair enough place to the immediate eye but he did not feel at ease. He could hear the birdsong of dawn in the distance, but among the mounds it was silent, except for the quiet whine of the dawn breeze. Somehow, he could not imagine music here.

And on closer consideration…those pavilions were guard-posts. No-one approached, but Celebrimbor knew well the sensation of being watched by unseen eyes. Not hostile, but still, it was not something that he had expected to meet in Aman. 

“What is this place?” he asked quietly. 

There was no laughter in Lalwen now. “Follow me,” was all she said, before plunging into the maze of paths. Celebrimbor followed her winding route until she stopped at a mound that was in no way different from the ones surrounding it, and said to the air, in the archaic Quenya of Ingwe’s court, “I am Lalwendë ĺrimë, daughter of Indis and Finwe, Queen of Tol Eressëa, Keeper of the Door of Fire. I bring with me Tyelperinquar Curufinwë, son of Curufinwë and Nariellë, Lord of the House of Fëanor in the line of Finwe High King. He has the right to be here. Admit us.”

The breeze fell silent. A shiver ran through the long grass, and slowly the side of the mound parted to shape a great gash in the earth, elf-high and showing the head of a paved path leading downwards. Cold air breathed from the gap, and fear came with it; Celebrimbor shuddered, remembering Beleriand in the dark years. But this was Aman, with dawn coming. There was no danger to him, he knew it as true, down to his bones; but this was a dangerous place nonetheless, and he knew that as true too.

Without looking back, Lalwen stepped over the threshold and in; Celebrimbor followed silently. _Andonarë_ , the Door of Fire. What could that be? Tol Eressëa wasn’t volcanic, though there were a handful of hot springs on the plateau and down by the shore heated by the geothermal gradient… 

The way was paved with granite ashlar, sloping downwards in wide, shallow steps. It was lit by cool lights on the wall, that glowed gently to life as Lalwen passed, her soft-booted footsteps making no sound on the stone. The steps ended at a broad corridor, as smooth and bright and sterile as the stair. Lalwen went on, with Celebrimbor at her shoulder, until they reached a wide, circular antechamber. And facing them, on the other side of the chamber, a door.

The Doors of Mandos were daunting. Anyone approaching them felt very small before them, because, well, they would be; though Master Frodo had merely remarked, “My, they’re big, aren’t they?” and not seemed otherwise moved. Celebrimbor had supposed that it was because Hobbits were used to being small; it was the proper condition of their being, and therefore did not trouble them. 

But this door …. its maker had been a master or mistress of their art, and their intent hammered his every sense without subtlety: fear, horror, sorrow, dread, the memory of agony, both of body and of mind; and underlying it all, most terribly, a blazing, ferocious joy. It was like the breath of Angband, when its gates were opened to bring doom upon the Host of the Noldor. Lalwen’s strong hand on his elbow held him on his feet when he staggered with the shock of it. 

“Steady,” she said. “It’s…difficult to deal with, I know.” Her warm, clear thoughts touched his, briefly sharing her deep, enduring strength, and the Queen’s bond with the lands that acknowledged her. Celebrimbor drew a deep breath – in, out - , letting the vast, slow life of the earth around them calm and steady him. After a moment he found his centre again, and with it the ability to pay attention to his surroundings. 

The antechamber was completely empty but for the lamps on the grey-gleaming walls. The mirror-smooth floor was inlaid with the seals of the Valar all in a ring, but in the centre of the ring was the fiery, many-coloured device of the House of Fëanor, and beside it the white, radiating spiral device that belonged to his mother Nariel. The door itself, now that he could look at it properly, separately from its effect on him, was an impressive piece of work. Not beautiful to his exacting eye, but with that power ringing through it, it didn’t need to be. Arched and double-width, and double height, not unlike his design for Durin’s doors in the bright years of Eregion, with no visible seam or hinge, and made of an unfamiliar, matte-grey metal (he made a mental note to find out what it was, a tungsten alloy perhaps?). Though almost the same colour as the granite, its dullness contrasted shockingly with the smooth polish of the stone. Inlaid on its surface were four enamelled seals: uppermost and side by side, the Silver Tree and the Golden, the devices of Ingwe, High King of All Elves and Lauriën, High Queen; below them, the White Tree of Tirion, for Galadriel, High Queen of the Noldor, Lalwen’s liege-lady, and beside that, once more, the bright flames of the House of Fëanor.

“What is this place?” Celebrimbor asked again.

“Lay your hand upon the seal,” Lalwen said, “and It will tell you. You are the Lord of the House of Fëanor.” For now, as Nerdanel was Lady, under protest and _only_ until the rest of the family came home (they _were_ coming home, neither Nerdanel nor Celebrimbor would countenance matters being otherwise).

He stepped forward, then checked himself, looking back. “You aren’t…”

“I am only the Keeper,” she said. “There are four alone to whom that Door will speak, and all four must be present and agreed for it ever to open again.”

That was…ominous. For once, he was not at all sure that he wanted to know the answer to a question. “Who made it?” 

From the look on Lalwen’s face she knew perfectly well that he was, as the Dwarves used to put it, _havering_ , but she told him anyway.

“He was Rauco in those days, ‘Rog’ in the Sindarin, though I hope that he may call himself something kinder by now... Lord of the House of the Hammer was his other name, one of Turgon’s people.” She didn’t need to say, “a mighty lord of Gondolin”; it was manifestly obvious from the work before them. “Rog the Balrog-slayer. He died when Gondolin fell, and his whole House with him, and they came back with the Host of the Valar, to fight again in the War of Wrath.” And _there_ was another story, one that Celebrimbor had only ever heard in hints and whispers. Finrod and his Ten hadn’t been the only Reborn to return to the land of their doom for the chance to strike at the Enemy one final time. 

“He built the Door for your mother afterwards, in thanks to her for the gift of his vengeance.”

That was even more ominous. 

But well, the gem could not be left in the crucible forever. He stepped forward and laid his hand upon the device of his House. For a moment it hummed quietly beneath his will, recognising if not him personally, then the authority of his position, his right to be there. And then it answered his question, and the embodied power of the Hammer of Wrath struck him to his knees.

. . . . .

When he came back to himself, he was propped against the door, still kneeling, with his cheek against its chill surface. Something was holding him up; he opened his eyes and realised that it was Lalwen, sitting with her back against the wall and with one arm extended around his waist, keeping him from falling over.

“Urrgh.” He got himself turned around and back down onto the floor shoulder to her shoulder; the Door mercifully let him rest against It without further revelations. His head spun, as knowledge he could not un-know settled into his brain. Not just the equations, but the vast work of their realisation in metal and energy and will. The power that slept uneasily beyond that door was …

“Nariel described it as standing in relation to the Secret Fire as the _hröa_ stands to the _fëa_.”

He had felt his mother’s power entwined in everything that waited beyond that door. Her cold, clear thoughts, her diamond-drill focus, the strength of her will turned to this most great and deadly work. And it was a Great Work, there was no doubt about it, a feat of engineering unequalled since the Silmarils; perhaps the mightiest and most terrible Work ever made on Arda by embodied hands. The One Ring would have let Sauron corrupt every heart in Middle-earth to his will. Nariel’s Work cared nothing for minds or hearts; it had been made for one purpose only, to destroy.

“How…”

Lalwen passed him a silver flask; it was heavy and sloshed in a comforting way. 

“Have a drink. I needed one, the first time that I came here, when I was introduced to the Door as Its Keeper.”

He had expected _miruvor_ , but instead it was an excellent pear brandy, the famous Hobbit recipe that Master Frodo had brought to the Blessed Realm. He swallowed a mouthful of sweet-scented fire, and let the kindness and good intent of its making ease the roiling turbulence of his spirit (not to mention his stomach).

Lalwen was speaking. “Nariel told me that the original insight was your grandfather’s.”

Of course.

“He was wise enough to move to other interests, however, and did not develop it further. Your mother deciphered his notebooks on Finarfin’s order, after all of us…left Valinor.”

“Yes,” she said, as Celebrimbor shifted and opened his mouth.

“This was long before the Silmaril came to Valinor. My brother was preparing for war almost from the moment he returned to Tirion.”

“Great-Uncle Finarfin…allowed _this_?”

Lalwen reached over wordlessly, and he gave her the flask. She took a healthy swig and gave it back.

“It was done by his will and upon his order. Nerdanel was already building Falastirion by then, to be the launching port for their, our fleet. This was before the Silmaril came back, and the Valar asked the Teleri to give up Tol Eressëa, which they weren’t using anyway.” She shrugged, a little sadly.

“Nariel put a team together, every engineer and physicist and materials scientist left in Aman, and the Maiar of Aulë helped too…”

“ _Aulë_ helped…” He had another mouthful of brandy.

“And Yavanna. You saw the biological effects of the neutron emission from the fusion reaction.”

“I…” Celebrimbor pulled himself shakily to his feet, still clutching the flask. 

“Do we need to stay here any longer?”

“No.” Lalwen stood. “You just needed to be introduced, and to know what is here, and why I guard it, and hope in the Song that you will not be the one to stand here when it is opened again.”

To his look of utter horror, she returned only a shrug of grim resignation. “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. That Door…would be very happy to be open.”

The walk up to the normal world seemed very long, but the sun had only just risen when they stepped over the threshold into the morning air, the swift sunrise of the Lonely Isle. The nightmare below had taken so little time…the earth rumbled beneath his feet, and when he looked back, the side of the mound had closed, with only a long seam of soil to show where the entrance had been. The long grass was already settling into place to hide it.

“Come on,” Lalwen said, “Up, you should sit a bit and catch your breath.” They scrambled up the shallow sides of the mound to the top, where they found a mat, and a small pot of tea, two cups, and a plate of rice crackers waiting on a low stand. Celebrimbor looked around in dismay. On every side identical grassy tumuli rose, an endless, sinister array, dreadful in their simplicity now that he knew what was buried under each one.

“And these are just the ones…that _weren’t_ used?” 

“Sit.” He obeyed, and Lalwen poured him a cup of tea. As she had predicted, he didn’t want to eat, but the bitterness of the tea and the bland, salty crunch of the crackers soothed his uneasy stomach.

They were facing east; Andonarë was near the eastern edge of the plateau, and at the horizon Celebrimbor could see the line of silver fire that was the Sea. The air was still sharp and cool, but the first warmth of the Sun touched his face like a gentle hand. He didn’t need the Queen to tell him that this knowledge was not to be shared widely. Indeed, he doubted that he would be able to say anything at all. The sheer enormity of this deed weighed too heavily upon his tongue for him to speak. 

“In Beleriand, we saw the light from afar,” Lalwen murmured. “The earth shook and even from behind the mountains, each flash was brighter than the Sun. They said that the servants of the Enemy shrivelled like leaves in a garden fire...the Drowning was a mercy, in the end. With what Morgoth did to it, and then we…there would have been nothing left anyway.”

The Door had shown him the images, with all the savage joy that its maker had felt. The memory of it still shuddered through his blood. He could not even condemn it. If he had had the chance to use these weapons against Annatar…

Lalwen said calmly, “That is why the Keeper does not have the power to open the Door."

He could have wept with relief at the thought. They sat a while longer, as the Sun rose and the sky turned from white to pale, cloudless blue. It was going to be a nice day. When the tea and crackers were finished, they gathered up the crockery and mat, and went back down to the hexapod, where a taciturn guardswoman took the things, and bowed them into the cart.

The Queen sighed and took up the hammer to sound out the sequence for her house in Alalminorë. “Right, Tyelpë, let’s go home.”


End file.
